I encountered Jesús when he arrived on our front porch in the fall of 2005. He was 19 years old. We knew very little about him except that he was from a small village on the Southeastern shore of Lake Atitlan in Guatemala. His primary language was K’iche. He spoke some Spanish. He had an infectious smile. And, when he was 15 years old, he had worked with our friend, Tom Benevento, who was, at that time, serving with Brethren Voluntary Service, making outdoor cooking stoves for households in their Mayan community. It was his contact with Tom that had brought him to Goshen after he ended up in Phoenix with no connections and no place to go. Tom was a part of our economically diverse faith community – a church that didn’t own a building but that had just purchased a house that we called “The Faith House” – to be used for community gatherings, a place for members and friends to do laundry, a place for parties and for the youth to meet and a place to offer short term hospitality for those in need. Jesús fit the bill and settled into the guest room at “The Faith House.” He did work around the house – painting and yard work mostly – in order to maintain his dignity and contribute to the good of the whole, even though he didn’t have money to pay rent. But he was lonely. Back in Guatemala he was the oldest son with many extended family members. But his life had been framed by tragedy. His dad and his uncles had all been killed when he was very young at the hands of military insurrectionists, trained by the School of the Americans in Ft. Benning, Georgia – and financed by our government during the Reagan Administration. That brutality had resulted in massacres and the dehumanization of many indigenous Mayan communities. The whole of Jesús’ community in San Lucas de Toliman had grown up without a generation of men, so many had been killed resulting in the destruction not only of families, but also resulting in the social fragmentation of rural, indigenous communities. In an effort to earn money to send home to his mom, sisters, and one year old daughter, Jesús took off for “el norte” – the North. To the land of opportunity. Land that was also the source of so much pain in his life. And within weeks of his arrival in Goshen he was feeling very lonely. That’s when he came to our house where he became the big brother to our kids and the very responsible teenaged son to Les and I.
Jesús promptly got a job working in a factory, working long hours around toxic chemicals. Nevertheless, he made friends quickly – at work, at our small Mennonite church that met on Sunday evenings, and at the Catholic church where he attended the Spanish services every Sunday morning. When he was at home we spent lots of time at the kitchen table passing the Spanish/English dictionary back and forth. Even now we laugh at the memory of Thanksgiving morning that year – when Jesús told me he was going to go to the Faith House to paint the CHICKEN (instead of Kitchen) and I told him I was going to the church meetinghouse to cut up DUCKS / patas (instead of potatoes / papas)!
Jesús sent most of his money back to his family in Guatemala. But he had to send some to someone to pay off a debt related to his coming to the US. Toward the end of the year we finally heard parts of the pain-filled story of his migration.
The trek North had been months long, fraught with vulnerability and danger as he made his way through Mexico, selling ice cream bars in towns to make a few pesos and get food to eat. He usually slept outside, trying to stay out of sight. By the time he made it to the US/Mexico border he met up with Coyotes – folks who said they would lead him safely through the Southern Arizona desert in exchange for money. After borrowing money from someone and paying a Coyote, Jesús was told to get two jugs of water and meet them once the sun was down. He was told it would only take 24 hours and he would be safely in the land of plenty.
But that was not to be. The trek across the sonoran desert was hot and harsh. They walked at night to avoid the Border Patrol and slept in the minimal shade of thorny mesquite trees during the day. One day turned to two. Then to three. Jesús tried to ration his water, drinking only what he absolutely needed. He fearfully finished his first gallon and tossed the empty jug aside, along with the remnants of previous migrants: backpacks, children’s shoes, rosaries hung from branches – signs of hope and faith in the face of threat and loss. And he trudged on.
But the next night, as they were walking in the cover of darkness, lights from a Border Patrol Jeep shone in their direction. The coyote called for everyone to quickly get out of sight, in the ditch, and to be still. So along with the others, Jesús dove in a rocky ditch, water jug in hand, and stayed still and quiet as the lights illuminated the barren and brutal landscape, back and forth, back and forth. 30 minutes later, when the lights were gone, Jesús got up and dusted himself off. But something was wrong. His jug was light. And then he realized: when he dove in the ditch, his jug must have hit a rock and split open. It was now completely empty. From there the story got cryptic: 3 more days of walking through debilitating heat. No water. Seeing mirages. At one point he came upon some soiled, oil covered murky water. In desperation, he took off his shirt and pushed it down on top of the liquid to try to filter out what he could. Whatever he drank didn’t settle well. Hallucinations filled his mind. He didn’t know where he was. He lost all track of time and space and awareness. The next thing he remembered was being stacked on top of other people, under a bench seat in a box truck. It was very hot. He thought he had died. And he lost consciousness. He didn’t know how long he was in the truck. He came to when he was left at the side of the road in the scorching heat of Phoenix. He wasn’t sure who helped him. Or how long he was there. But somehow he contacted Tom Benevento. And he ended up with a train ticket to Goshen.
Jesús told this story with a catch in his throat and tears in his eyes. And with great love and gratitude to God who he experienced as accompanying him through that valley of the shadow of death and somewhat miraculously restoring his life. At the end of the year, Jesús returned to Guatemala, to start over again.
Biblical Reflection: Mark 12:28-34: Jesus names the central focus of the Reign of God: Love. In both a spiritual realm and in a material realm. Both/And – ONE.
In the gospel of Mark, this very well known story of Jesus’ encounter with the religious scholar at the temple is placed in the final days of Jesus’ life:
after his time of ministry,
after his transfiguration,
after he tells his followers no less than three times that he will be killed – and he will rise from death,
after his entry into Jerusalem on a humble donkey,
after his confrontation with the powers of religious life as he upset the money-changers’ tables in the courtyard of the temple.
In fact it was this act of challenging religious practices devoid of love that drew other religious scholars to question him about his authority in a variety of ways: Who gave you this authority?
Should we or should we not pay taxes?
Are we bound to our familial commitments in the afterlife?
One scholar had been lurking, listening in, on the edges of the crowd. Intrigued by Jesus’ answers, he inched closer and posed one final question: “What IS the greatest commandment?” Jesus answered directly quoting from the teachings of the Torah as recorded in Deuteronomy 6 verses 4 and 5:
“Hear O Israel. The Lord our God. The Lord is One. Love the Lord with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength.”
But as if to take that truth of the One-ness of God and expand it from one point of focus to encompass the whole of one’s life, the essence of one’s humanity, Jesus added his own expansion saying,
“And the second commandment is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself.”
He tied these two together as ONE concluding:
“There IS no commandment greater than these”.
In one short answer, Jesus moved the locus of faithful living from something solely spiritual, to something very practical, very material, very much rooted in the here and now; in our relationships; in how we live our lives; in what it means to be human.
When the religious scholar restated and affirmed Jesus’ answer, Jesus’ reply was to acknowledge: when you GET this expansive truth about LOVE, then you can rest assured that you are close to the Reign of God.
STORY: Encounter con Maria Cortez Portillo
Saulo and Jorge were two of my coworkers with the Mennonite Central Committee. Saulo was in charge of Immigration ministries across the US. And Jorge and I worked together in church engagement. They were both originally from Guatemala but had migrated to Canada during the war in Guatemala in the 1980s and then eventually made their way to the Goshen area for study and seminary. In 2012 they asked if I’d like to join them in walking the Migrant Trail – along with 50 – 70 other people from all walks of life wanting to learn about the realities of migrants in the desert. We were all friends of Jesús and knew that the path we would walk passed through the same Sonoran desert that had almost taken his life. We decided to create an MCC subgroup with three others and embark on the experience that was designed to draw attention to the deaths in the desert and the injustices inherent in our immigration system.
The first night of orientation in Tucson, Arizona we were each invited to pick up a white cross measuring about 24 inches high and 18 inches across. On each cross was the name and birthdate of someone who had died in the desert. I approached the pile of rickety crosses with a kind of holy trepidation. Many of the crosses simply said, “Desconocida” or “Desconocido” – “unknown”. But when I reached into the pile, the cross that my hand touched said Maria Cortez Portillo, age 52. On that June day I was three months shy of 52. And I wondered: who was Maria Cortez Portillo and what was her story? How were we the same? And how were we different?
For the next 7 days our group of anywhere between 50 and 75 people walked in procession from Sonora, Sasabe, Mexico through the Sonoran desert, to Tucson, Arizona, each day walking anywhere from 9 to 16 miles, sleeping on the ground, some in tents at night. The sweltering June Arizona weather was brutal. So we got up very early each morning – like 3am – in an effort to be done walking by the time the scorching sun reached its peak. Water trucks drove ahead of us, stopping every couple miles so we could fill our water bottles. We all kept our heads covered and wore long white sleeves, carrying as little as possible: water bottles in one hand, crosses in the other. Mostly we walked single file, periodically calling out the names of those whose lives were memorialized on our crosses. After each name was called out, the line of walkers responded with: ¡PRESENTE! Each time it was my turn I called out: Maria Cortez Portillo – and my compañeras y compañeros would respond with: ¡PRESENTE! And each time I would wonder, who was Maria? She was my age. Did she have children? And if so, were they with her when she died in the desert? Or were they still living, but now without their mom? And as my mind wandered with curiosity, the procession continued, one name after another. ¡PRESENTE! ¡PRESENTE! ¡PRESENTE!
Each afternoon after we finished walking, we wearily set up camp in whatever shade we could find among the sparse mesquite trees and cacti. Most afternoons there was a presentation made by one of the immigration lawyers or human rights workers or theologians in our midst. The content was real – and often as harsh as the scorching sun. But there were also moments of hope and music and laughter. Each evening a different church from the Tucson area brought us nutritious and tasty vegetarian food to enjoy along with iced tea and lemonade to drink. Those simple gifts of hospitality never tasted so good.
The week was physically exhausting, emotionally draining, intellectual troubling, and spiritually profound. On the final afternoon – after a 12 mile walk, much of it on the hot asphalt of the highway in 115 degree weather (which resulted in quarter-sized blisters on the balls of our feet which would need to be lanced and sterilized in preparation for the final 9 mile trek into Tucson the the next morning) our MCC sub-group of 6 met under the sparse quasi-shade of yet another mesquite tree, feasting on popsicles provided as a treat, as we reflected on the week together. Half of us knew Jesús personally – and realized with a heightened somber recognition – the risk, the vulnerability, the pain, the fear, the trauma, the sheer anguish he had endured. One in our group, a 40-something male church leader, had crossed the border as a young person. All of us felt the reality of the crisis that is lived out daily on the border: the push and pull factors that play a role in people feeling compelled to leave their homes, their communities, their families. And the love and hope that compelled so much that is the reality of migration. And as we sat together in the heat of the sun, thinking about Jesús and Maria Cortez Portillo and my friends who made up the circle in which we sat, half of whom had migrated in one way or another, I had a kind of vision. And in the vision I saw one center point of LOVE; that place where I had experienced a profound sense of love in my life for another human being; that moment when my first child was placed in my arms and I knew without reservation that I would willingly give my life for this tiny being; This child of God. Around that point of LOVE was a circle – and that circle got gradually bigger, encompassing my second child. And then my children’s friends. And then their friends’ families. And it kept expanding to include others who I had gotten to know – across time and space: folks I loved in Jamaica and Atlanta – and their families. Iranian friends who had become very important to me, teaching me about their culture and their faith and sharing their lives with me. And the circle kept expanding to include their families and friends, Muslims who I didn’t know but who I now cared about because I loved my friends who were also Muslim. And then Jesús and Maria Cortez Portillo and so many others migrants who I didn’t know personally but whose stories had now caused that circle to expand further. And in that moment I had a sense that THIS is what following Jesus Christ is about: expanding our capacity to love, more and more throughout our lives. Taking whatever our lives bring us and allowing a sacred sphere of love to expand, encompassing more and more of what was originally outside our sphere of awareness or knowledge; outside our sphere of love.
The next day we got up early one more time and made our 9 mile descent into the city of Tucson. On our way into town a stranger – a woman of Mexican descent – pulled her car off the side of the road near the front of our procession, opened up her trunk, and offered each person in our long procession an iced cold bottle of gatorade or water. We approached the city park to find the entrance lined with people cheering and waving flags and clapping in solidarity. And when we finally arrived in the heart of the park we were met by an elderly Catholic Priest in his white cassock, who knelt down in the dusty sand of the park and washed the feet of representatives of our group in the most moving experience of foot washing I have ever been a part of.
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Since that time under the mesquite tree I have returned to that image of the expanding circle many times. When I came to know and value Palestinian friends suffering under the weight of occupation, that circle inched out to include them – and those who love them. When one very close to me realized that she was trans, it was clear to me that while I had a lot to learn and there was a lot that I didn’t understand, this was an opportunity for me to expand that circle, to care for the trans folks in my community and in our midst with a fierce love.
Like the biblical scholar who sought out Jesus to ask about the greatest commandment, I too, have wanted to know: What is most important? And how do we live this life most meaningfully? And where is God in the midst of it all, when there’s so much suffering and pain and struggle?
And upon reflection, I realize that Jesus has responded to my perpetual query by sending me Jesús and Maria Cortez Portillo and my dear Iranian friends, and my trans loved ones. All this time, when I was trying to “get it right”- to seek after God, I realize now: that God was seeking after me, through experiences and through people. God met me at the door when Jesús arrived. And God met me under that mesquite tree with Saulo and Jorge and Pedro and Jack. And everytime that circle expands just a little bit – even if only to make space for one of my chickens – it is as if God has placed that chicken in my life to help expand that circle of Love. And I get to make the decision over and over: do I ignore the impulse to love? Or do I welcome it as an invitation to welcome “God who comes disguised as my life”. If I can see each encounter that makes up my life as an invitation to expand that circle of love just a bit more, with the energy of love, maybe I can open myself to the mystery that “God is, indeed, coming to me disguised as our life” – and rest in that truth, trusting that GOD is forever seeking after all of us.
Friends, this one thing I know: LOVE is forever seeking you out – as God comes to you disguised as your life – inviting you to expand the sphere of love in which you live, move and have your being. Courage to each of you as you live your one, unique, mysterious life, grounded in the truth that LOVE seeks after you, liberates & empowers you, and sustains you in and through all things, enabling YOU to love with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength. Amen.
SONG OF RESPONSE: I sought the Lord, HWB# 506
I sought the Lord and afterward I knew, he moved my soul to seek him seeking me, It was not I that found, O savior true. No, I was found of thee.
Thou did reach forth thy hand and mine enfold. I walked and sank not on the storm vexed sea. ‘Twas not such that I on thee took hold. No thou, dear Lord, on me.
I find I walk, I love, but O the whole of love is but my answer Lord to thee. For thou wert long beforehand with my soul. Always thou lovest me.
BENEDICTION
Go empowered by the LOVE that created you, liberates you, and sustains you – to live your unique life as a minister of love and peace in a hurting world. Amen.